okay i believe you
by mirazal
Summary: we're concentrated on falling apart


Okay I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don't

"Don't you love me?"

He decided to tell her the truth. It would have been so easy to lie and say "I love you" to her, because she wanted to believe it. Early on, it had been difficult to ignore her sneaking glances at him and her meek smiles, her golden skin and the way her hair looked like fire when she stood in the evening light. Sometimes, when he wasn't careful, he would look at her laid out below him like she was the most important thing in the world that he had to protect, and he thought that he could love her. Yet he always remembered at the last moment to banish those thoughts from his mind.

Himself. He loved and trusted no one but himself, because he had learned early on that any other line of thinking gets you screwed over.

"I don't."

He had to watch her pull on her clothes, her shoulders trembling slightly despite the hard expression she kept on her face. She was at the door with her hand on the doorknob when she paused suddenly to tell him, "I loved you, though. You are a sick, terrible person, and I know that now. But I was in love with all of you."

Warm sunlight had been filtering through the window, yet the moment she slammed the door, clouds must have filled the sky because the sunlight was cut off and he was left in darkness.

Sometimes it was a lonely existence, never reaching out to anyone. He had to constantly remind himself that he was better, and that no one was good enough for him to grow close to. It was usually easy; an ego like his didn't come from being stupid, and he knew how the world worked. He knew what words to slip here and there, what expressions would make them believe him, what to do and how to do it right.

He knew how to play people, and it was all he needed.

Still, there would be times when he wondered if he was remotely close to a decent person. There would be times when he finally cut a connection and didn't enjoy the injured hearts that fell around him. There would be times when he was drunk and alone in his house, sitting in a vacant corner, playing with a loaded gun and gambling with a life that felt worthless to him.

And then he would laugh, because even if he died right then, there would be no one to come running to his house in the middle of the night. No one would be at his funeral. There would be nothing funnier than the tremendous irony of it all, to die at his own malicious hands, when all he wanted was to feel vitally close to someone, to listen to a steady heartbeat that he would memorize and be able to find anywhere in the world.

He wanted someone that he could survive with in space, breathing in and out of the lungs that didn't belong to him but were still his, because they would need him as much as he needed them.

At first it was amusing, observing her feelings towards him progress and evolve. She was one of countless others who projected their dreams onto him, and he didn't mind. In fact, it was fun to watch her stumble over her words when they had a conversation, or see her eyes look straight at the tips of her shoes as she hurried past him in the hall.

Then it became less funny, when one day he greeted her with a smirk on his lips and the whole world shifted when she smiled back.

On days he felt particularly masochistic, he thought about her. He especially liked to remember the day she stood next to him outside their office building, her eyes watching him intently as he took a drag off of his cigarette. It had been uncharacteristically cold, the wind biting at her bare arms, and he raised his eyebrow as she shivered.

"Why don't you go back inside?" His voice was like the smoke that he exhaled – thin and raspy, dissipating as soon as it hit the air but sticking to her clothes so she was forced to wear its essence until she went home. At least, that was what he liked to imagine. It was another strange fantasy that he chose to entertain, one best kept to himself and out of the minds of others.

She tilted her head down until her hair fell like a curtain over her face. "I thought I'd stay out here with you," she told him. She flinched when the wind howled at them, blowing her hair out of the way so he could glimpse the blue lines of her mouth.

He shrugged out of his jacket and placed it over her shoulders, secretly relishing in the way her muscles tensed under his touch, but he didn't look at her. He didn't look at her as he stamped the remains of his cigarette into the pavement and walked back inside. It would have been unbearable to see the tiny spark of admiration he knew was in her eyes, because he felt like a forest fire.

There was a mantra in his head that day, reminding him that he wouldn't ever be weak like the rest of the world. But, almost without his knowledge, he fell and the fire spread, and unfortunately, hardly anyone ever escapes a fire unharmed.

She laughed when he told her that he was no good.

"How can you be no good?" she asked, her eyes shining. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"No, I'm not," he argued back, "I am literally poison." But he kissed her anyway.

Happiness was a strange thing for him. He kept careful lines up, dividing what he allowed himself to derive happiness from. They were precise and exact, never deviating from the categories.

She was different. He thought that he liked being with her for the anticipation of what would inevitably happen, and his sadistic delight built up gradually. But the lines became blurred and he started to become happy with each of her smiles, each flick of her hair, the way she talked, the way she fell asleep.

He had spent a lot of time lying to himself. Truth became what he wanted and what she wanted became truth, and his universe began to fall apart and break at the seams. Now he was alone, the slam of the door still ringing in his ears.

"Don't you love me?"

He wanted to tell her the truth. But habit's a funny thing, and anyway, he was never supposed to let his guard down.


End file.
